“I have a theory about your shoulder.” He moves further into the locker room, leaning against the wall. When I don’t acknowledge him, he continues. “I think your pain is psychosomatic.”
Anger flares in my chest, hot and defensive. “You’re saying it’s not real? I’m making it up?”
“No, the pain is real,” Riley says firmly. “Psychosomatic doesn’t mean imaginary,” he clarifies. “It means your nervous system is involved. It’s a connection between your body’s physical response and your mental state.”
I scoff. “Sounds like bullshit.”
“Does it?” He pushes off from the wall, stepping closer. “Look at the evidence. Your MRI is clean. No structural damage that would explain the level of pain you’re experiencing. Your strength comes and goes depending on context. The pain spikes under pressure, not load. And your body braces before you even move, anticipating pain that hasn’t happened yet.”
I want to argue, but what he’s saying resonates with what I’ve felt. The way my shoulder seizes up before fights, how the pain disappears in the heat of combat only to return afterward, worse than before.
“Your body is guarding,” Riley continues. “It’s staying locked, like it’s constantly preparing for impact.”
“I’m a fighter,” I retort. “That’s what I do.”
“That’s the problem. Your body doesn’t know how to stop. Even when the fight is over, you’re still bracing for the next hit.”
I sink onto a bench, suddenly exhausted. “So what does that mean? What’s causing it?”
“Could be chronic stress, unresolved fear, a need for control.” Riley sits beside me, not touching, but close enough that I can feel the warmth of him. “Sometimes pain is the only way the body forces you to listen.”
I stare at the floor, at the scuffed tiles beneath my feet. “Listen to what?”
“To yourself,” Riley says quietly. “To what you keep pushing down.”
Something cracks open inside me. “So my shoulder is just… weak?”
“No.” Riley’s denial is immediate and firm. “It’s tired. It’s doing its job. It’s trying to protect you.” He pauses, choosing his words. “You take hits for a living. But you resist anything that touches you when it’s not a fight.”
My breath catches in my throat as the subtext lands. I don’t argue because it’s true. The only touch I allow is violent. Anything else, anything gentle or intimate, I flinch away from. Except with Riley. His touch broke through somehow, and we both know it.
“We can treat the muscle,” Riley offers. “But if you want this to stop coming back, you have to stop bracing against your own body.”
I look at him, feeling oddly threatened by his insight. “And what if I don’t know how?”
“Then I’ll teach you,” Riley says, the simple statement hanging between us.
The locker room suddenly feels smaller. The distant drip of water marks seconds of silence.
“What exactly are you suggesting?” I finally ask.
“Different kinds of relaxation techniques.” Riley straightens slightly, back in doctor mode. “Deep tissue work, guided breathing, salt baths, sauna sessions, meditation, and…” He hesitates.
“And?” I prompt, something in his hesitation making my pulse quicken.
Riley licks his lips, the first sign of nervousness I’ve seen from him today. “Have you ever tried prostate massage?”
“What?” The word explodes out of me. “No!”
“It’s a legitimate therapeutic technique. It can release deep tension in the pelvic floor that’s connected to the lower back and shoulders. The entire body is interconnected.”
I stand abruptly, putting distance between us. “No way I’m letting you do that.”
Riley remains seated, watching me pace. “It was just a suggestion. There are other approaches we can try.”
“Good,” I mutter. “Let’s try those first.”
“Think about it,” Riley says, standing. “Not just the prostate massage, but all of it. Learning to relax, to let go of the guard. I think it could make a significant difference.”